


A Better Man

by ThatComicGirl52



Series: Monthly Oneshots [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, M/M, Monthly oneshot, Teacher/Student, but nothing explicit, underage is tagged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 14:54:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14167338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatComicGirl52/pseuds/ThatComicGirl52
Summary: Dick Grayson is on his own. He's got no one who truly cares for him, but can that change?





	A Better Man

**Author's Note:**

> This is my monthly oneshot for April. Thank you so much to Do_The_Cool_Whip, who without her, this oneshot would not exist. This was the oneshot pairing that was voted for this previous month on my monthly oneshot poll. To find out how you can take part in my poll, and have access to more exciting things having to do with my fanfiction, check out my tumblr at thatcomicgirl52.tumblr.com.  
> This is part two to last month's oneshot. It takes place in a different universe then my fanficiton, Million Reasons To Leave. Enjoy!

I don't rush to class. I never do, because what's the point? It's not like I'm actually going to learn anything in any of these classes. The teachers obviously don't care about us.

  
This high school is a complete disaster. It's the worst high school in all of Gotham City. It's where all the poor, troubled kids attend school. The city doesn't care about our education, the teachers don't care about our education, so I don't care about my education.

  
Someone pushes me against the wall as I enter the health classroom. The kid doesn't even notice me, instead choosing to curse off one of his friends in an obnoxiously loud voice. I don't even blink, I'm so used to being pushed around. I have enough bruises to last me the next five years. I'm all too used to being treated like a punching bag, but what can you expect when you live in a foster home? I guess I should just consider myself lucky to have someplace to go at the end of the day.

  
The wooden desks are old and creaking. They look like they were just thrown around the room, instead of lined up in neat rows like they should be. While other schools might have all the latest technology, like iPads for all of their students, and a smartboard in every classroom, our school has technology from the year 1998. We're still using black chalkboards, notebooks, and textbooks.

  
I find myself a free seat in the back, away from the rest of the students. I find it best to keep my head down at this school. Actually, if we're being honest here, I try to keep my head down wherever I go. It's better that way. Much less likely to attract trouble.

  
I busy myself with doodling in my new health notebook, which used to be my American History notebook, but I can't afford to buy a new one for the class.

  
"Alright everyone, take your seats please! Class is about to begin," a man shouts, making me look up. I'm surprised when I see who the teacher is.

  
Mr. Wayne is a new teacher here, but why he's teaching classes at this school, I have no idea. Bruce Wayne is a multibillionaire. He's famous for being rich, a playboy, and an orphan. He doesn't need to work. He owns Wayne Enterprises, and he doesn't even run that himself. He pays other people to run it for him.

  
It was all over the news a couple of years ago when he went back to college to get his teaching degree. I'd didn't pay it much attention at the time. I had more important things to worry about. Like sneaking food behind my foster dad's back in the middle of the night, just to make sure I wouldn't starve.

  
People were surprised that Bruce Wayne even wanted to be a teacher, and when they asked him about it, Wayne simply said he wanted to help shape the next generation. Whatever that means. People were even more surprised when he said he wanted to teach at Gotham South High, the worst high school in all of Gotham City.

  
I didn't expect to have him as one of my teachers. I never gave Bruce Wayne two thoughts before today. He looks so out of place here in his expensive khakis, white button down, and black and gray striped tie. His hair looks perfect, his muscles bulging underneath his clothes. Wayne looks like he just stepped out of a magazine. I hate to admit it, but he's hotter in real life then he is on TV.

  
"The rich boy is our teacher!" One idiot shouts, stating the obvious. I roll my eyes at him, but Wayne doesn't seem all that bothered by the comment.

  
He lets the class take it's time settling down before introducing himself. Which is kind of pointless, since we already know who he is. The whole country knows who he is.

  
No one really takes him seriously, because why should they? We're Juniors this year. This isn't our first day of high school. We know that none of the teachers really care about us here, so why would Wayne be any different?

 

 

*********************

 

  
It doesn't take long for me to realize that Wayne is different. He does care. Not only does he care about educating us, but he also cares about us as people. At the end of every class, he always looks right at me as I leave, wishing me a good day. He'll ask students how their day is going. No other teacher at this school even does that. It's weird, but I like it. When his eyes meet mine and he smiles, my heart flutters against my chest. I can't think for a moment, and my face gets so hot that it feels as if I've swallowed the sun.

  
It isn't until one certain assignment that Wayne shows me just how much he cares about his students. He says that for one week, we have to write down everything we eat. He explains that there are no wrong or right answers to this assignment. He doesn't expect any of us to have the perfect diet. Wayne says that this is just an experiment, a way for us to learn how to adjust our diets so that we can be healthier and happier.

  
I am not a fan of this assignment.

  
I do not eat well. Anyone who has seen me without a shirt on can tell you that. My foster parents can't afford much, and the food they can afford doesn't last long enough for me to have any. It's not like I'm the only foster kid they took in. There's five of us in total, all ranging from ages fifteen to eighteen. So what food is left over for us, usually goes to one of the kids who can eat faster than me. In my house, it's every man for themselves. No one is concerned about anyone else.

  
It's embarrassing for me to write down everything I eat, because it's not much at all. I'm definitely not eating as much as someone my age should be. I even consider lying about what I eat, because I don't think I could stand the idea of Wayne pitying me. He seems like such a nice, thoughtful guy, despite what all of the gossip magazines have said. I don't want him looking down at me.

  
In the end, I decide to write the truth. It doesn't really matter, in the long run. Wayne probably won't care at all. I'm fooling myself to think he would. Why would someone as rich and powerful as him, care about some circus orphan like me? It just doesn't make any sense.

  
It's only a few days after I've handed in the assignment that Wayne catches me at the end of class, asking to speak to me for a moment. He touches my arm as he does, my face flushing.

  
I swallow loudly and smile at him, trying to ignore how his eyes swim with concern.

  
"Is something wrong, Mr. Wayne?" I ask, standing in front of his desk and trying to keep my cool. I've never been in the room with only Wayne before. It's strange. It makes my palms sweat and my heartbeat double in speed. Wayne notices how nervous I am, and gives me a reassuring smile.

  
"You're not in trouble, don't worry. I just wanted to talk to you about something."

  
I try to return the smile, but I end up grimacing instead. I'm used to being in trouble, usually for something I didn't even do. My foster parents are always screaming at me for something or another that one of the other foster kids did. Just last night, my foster dad tried to throw a glass dish at me because he thought I was the one who punched a hole in the wall. It was actually Kenny, an idiotic seventeen year old with a bad temper.

  
"I was looking over your food log assignment last night, and it concerned me," Wayne begins, pulling out the assignment from one of his desk drawers. Oh. I should have known it was about that. "If this log is correct, then you're barely eating anything, Dick."

  
Wayne looks up at me, his eyebrows pulled together in worry. He's waiting for an explanation, expecting me to be honest about the situation. But that stuff is personal, and I don't feel comfortable telling someone I barely know about my home life.  
I'm a nice guy. I used to be a very trusting person, but I can't be that way anymore. I had to stop being so trusting and kind when I became an orphan. I had no one to take care of me. I had to start watching out for myself. I want to trust Wayne, but I can't trust anyone anymore.

  
"There's not a lot to go around at home," I mumble, half-shrugging. Wayne silently stares. I awkwardly shift my weight from one foot to the other, looking down at the floor. I want to ask Wayne if I could just leave now. I'm not going to give him anymore of an an explanation than that. I don't owe him one.

  
"Are you hungry now?" He asks, putting my assignment back in the drawer. His eyes don't stray away from my face for one moment.

  
"No," I lie, but then my stomach growls loudly, giving me away. I had to skip lunch today. There was nothing to pack at home, and I didn't have any money to buy anything.

  
Wayne raises a brow at me, the corner of his lips lifting into an amused smile.

  
"It's the end of the school day. I know a good diner just up the block from here. My treat," he says. My eyes widen in surprise at the offer.

  
"Oh no, that's okay. You really don't have to do that," I tell him, shaking my head rapidly. Wayne waves a hand at me, standing up and grabbing his suitcase.

  
"I insist. I'm hungry too. Too busy grading papers during my lunch break to eat," he says. I want to reject his offer, but Wayne doesn't even wait for me to. He's already walking towards the door, looking back at me expectedly.

  
I am really hungry. I can't even remember the last time I had a real, nutritional meal. Yeah, it might be a little inappropriate to go out to a restaurant with a teacher, but it's still a free meal. I'm not really in the position to be turning down free food.  
I follow Wayne out, mumbling a thank you.

 

  
*********************

 

  
Wayne wasn't lying when he said the diner was just down the block. In fact, I'm surprised that I've never even noticed this place before. The restaurant is small and rundown. A real hole in the wall. It's not the kind of place I'd expect a guy like Bruce Wayne to go to.

  
The stranger thing is that everyone seems to know him here. The hostess welcomes him with a grin and hug, the waitress knows what he wants before we order, and the cook comes out of the kitchen simply to ask him how he's doing. It's weird, to think that someone as rich as Bruce Wayne would come to some rundown diner so often that the whole staff knows him.

  
At first, it's really awkward sitting across from Wayne, trying to think of something to say. Turns out, he's not much of talker. Wayne doesn't try to question me about my home life, even though at this point he's probably guessed that it's not very good. He just sits there, politely staring, as if waiting for me to fill the silence with conversation.

  
"So you come here pretty regularly, huh?" I finally ask, when I can't think of anything else to say. Wayne blinks at me, like he's only just noticed that I'm sitting there with him.

  
"Nice people and the best burgers I've tasted in all of Gotham," he answers.

  
I don't know what to say after that, and Wayne doesn't help carry the conversation at all. I'm grateful when our food arrives, giving me a reason not to talk. As soon as the delicious smell of my burger and fries hits me, my mouth begins to water. I realize I'm even hungrier than I thought I was.

  
I dig into my food as soon as it's put in front me, good manners be damned. I'm so hungry and I can't remember the last time I had a meal as filling and as delicious as this one.

  
Halfway through the meal, I begin to slow down. I take the time to actually enjoy my food, and when I do, I notice the small smile on Wayne's face. He's not saying anything, but I know he's pleased with himself. Pleased with his good charity. The taste of the food in my mouth turns sour.

  
"I don't need your pity, you know. You don't know anything about me. Don't assume that you do," I tell him, the anger in my tone as sharp as a knife. Wayne glances up at me in surprise, his innocent eyes wide.

  
"I don't pity you," he says quickly, "I understand you."

  
I narrow my eyes at him, suspicious. How can someone like Bruce Wayne ever understand me? We come from two totally different worlds.

  
"What do you even know about me?"

  
Wayne stares at me, silent and thoughtful, weighing his next words carefully, "I know that you're an orphan, and that you witnessed the murder of your parents. I also know that your home life is probably less then desirable and that you're not eating enough."

  
I take a sip of my soda, watching Wayne over the edge of my cup. I glare at him, challenging him to say more. He stares back, waiting for me to break the silence. It's an intense staring contest, only broken when our waitress comes by, asking us if everything is to our satisfactory.

  
"It's great, thank you," Wayne tells her, a charming smile on his face. The young waitress blushes red, giggling when she walks away.

  
Okay, so I'll admit that Wayne knows a little more about me then I originally thought he did, but that still doesn't mean I need his pity.

  
"I don't want to be anyone's charity case," I say, staring daggers at him. Wayne doesn't even flinch, doesn't even blink.

  
"Who said you were a charity case?" He answers. "I give more than enough to the less fortunate without your help. I don't need to help you to make myself feel better."

  
My forehead scrunches in confusion, my hands flying up in the air in exasperation.

  
"Then what's all of this even about then?" I exclaim. At first, Wayne is taken back by my outburst, but then he gives me his signature half smile.

  
"Do I need a reason to help someone out?" He asks, all innocent like.

  
I take my time answering him, giving myself a minute to continue eating. I clean off my plate, savoring the last taste of my salty fries. Might as well enjoy this meal while I can. Who knows when I'll be able to eat like this again?

  
Wayne waits patiently for me to speak, finishing his own meal. He acts like he has nowhere to be, even though I'm sure a man as successful as him has a million better things he could be doing right now.

  
"I guess not," I finally answer, when I can't think of anything better to say. Wayne flashes me satisfied grin. I can't ignore how that perfect smile makes my heart skip a beat.

  
"This was fun. Same time tomorrow then?" Wayne says, flagging the waitress down for the bill. I stare at him in surprise, sure that I misheard him. There's no way Wayne wants to take me out to eat again, right? Why would he? It's not like I was nice or friendly to him. I was actually quite rude, I'm ashamed to say.

  
I've been that way for a while now, ever since I became a foster kid. I used to be this generous, thoughtful, friendly person, but that all changed after my parents died. I want to be that good person again, though. I really do.

  
"Um, okay," I mutter, looking down at my empty plate. Wayne nods at me, pleased with my answer. He throws a one hundred dollar tip onto the table for the waitress, before going up to the cashier to pay for our meal.

  
I stare down at the hundred, wondering how Wayne is still managing to surprise me. That's a super generous tip, and how does he know I won't just steal it for myself? Maybe he has more faith in me than I thought. I want to prove that his faith isn't falsely placed.

  
"Mr. Wayne?" I call, standing up from my seat in the booth. Wayne looks over his shoulder at me, his expression just as kind and thoughtful as always. I'm not used to adults looking at me that way, but I like it. "Thank you."

  
He smiles at me, his entire face lighting up, as if starlight is shining through him. He seems so happy to hear me thank him, as if I've given him the best gift possible. Wayne is such a strange man. I've never met anyone quite like him before.

  
"Anytime," he says, and then walks out. I watch him as he does, and I can't help but smile to myself.

  
I like Wayne. I really do, and for the first time in a long time, I can't wait for what tomorrow brings.

 


End file.
